


Alone in the wastelands and other bad ideas

by GhostlyGhoulies



Category: Days Gone (Video Game)
Genre: Desperation, Fear, Fear of Death, Gen, Humiliation, Mercy Killing, Minor Character Death, Omorashi, Survival Horror, Watersports, Wetting, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26373040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostlyGhoulies/pseuds/GhostlyGhoulies
Summary: Deacon st John knows two thing; Hordes are awful and he has to piss
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Alone in the wastelands and other bad ideas

**Author's Note:**

> I can officially say, first omo fic for this fandom
> 
> REQUEST AND SUGGESTIONS ALWAYS OPEN ON MY TUMBLR: OMOGHOULS ♡☆

Calloused fingers rubbed at the gaunts under his eyes.

  
“Mind running that past me again.”

  
“Is my radio cutting out?” Rikki questioned.

  
“No, no I just wanted to make sure I didn’t just walk into a puff of that shit the rippers’ huff because all I’m hearing is crazy shit.”

  
An audible sigh crackled through the radio.

  
“Deek, look, I know but, it’s the only place I can think of that would still have gardening equipment,” she paused, “we can’t feed the camp if we don’t have the means.”

  
“Jesus Rikki, I know, I know, look, I’ll, uh, I’ll head into Sherman’s camp when I can,” Deacon said.

  
“You are a lifesaver, thanks Deek,” white noise buzzed for a moment, “ ‘sides, isn’t Boozer always sayin’ you’ve got a death wish?”

  
Deacon rolled his eyes, “St.John, out.”

  
He moved his hand from the radio back to the throttle, “Broozer should'a mentioned the part were going into a Freaker infested town for fucking things to clip corn was _not_ the death wish I had in mind,” he grumbled to himself as he drove down the desolated road.

–

  
Deacon scanned his surroundings, loosely gripping onto the break as he looked to the dusty pink sky as it turned to the murky orange of the evening.  
Crickets chirped amongst the tall grass while Deacon walked his bike behind the overgrown shrubbery. The drifter looked to his person, leaning down and grabbing his pistol, holding it close as he began down the road.  
The dirt path to the town housed numerous dilapidated structures, many of which brought the wafting pungent scent. He paused in his movements to glance to the nest filled houses.

  
“At least some get to still call 'em home,” the drifter muttered, jotting a mental note down to come back to burn the freaker’s nest, take care of one of the many 'safe houses’ for the infestations.

  
Deacon kicked at the gravel as he continued down the path. While he walked. his mind wandered down its own separate path. 

  
The nomad genuinely could not remember a time where he saw beauty in the evening. In the last two years, gawking at the colour of the sky or the smaller details (at least, ones that weren’t scattered bear-traps in ambush camps) hadn’t been a set priority. The towns, cottages and countrysides had been peeled back to their bare fundamentals of Freaker nest, camps and petrol. 

  
He stood at the head of the gated entrance.

  
And of course, supplies for said camps.

  
The clanging of the fence echoed in the small alleyway as he jumped down; he dusted off while he looked around the empty alleyway- shit, that was louder than he had expected. Deacon pushed that thought to the back of his mind as he departed from the alley and down the sidewalk.  
It was time to tackle the task at hand.

The drifter slipped into the nearest building, keeping his footsteps light on the debris-covered floor while he wandered around the old store.  
'Use to hate shopping,’ he reminisced aloud as he rummaged through the junk strewn about the room, 'still do, probably more.’

  
There were many elements of day to day life that altered when all this had gone down; some more irritating than anything truly harmful.

  
Deacon stood up, sighing before holding his radio to his face.

  
“Riki, you positive this thing is here?”

  
“Yeah, Reed and I saw it a couple of days ago when we rode past.”

  
“Couple days? Might as well have said it was here when the store first opened. You know marauders, anything remotely stabby they’ll nab.”

  
Riki groaned lightly, “Yeah, I guess your right, guess we should’ve picked them up while we were there.”

  
Her voice slipped into the background as Deacon walked around the building, running his finger through the cobwebs he had disturbed. His ears perked to the noise that pierced through the stillness.

  
Slowly he turned his head, his heart dropping like a brick into his stomach for a second.

  
A twitching figure hobbled down the street, casting a long shadow over the drifter. Deacon moved swiftly to the door frame, stalking the freaker who now crouched above the skeletal remains of some poor fucker. Knife in hand he crept closer and in a swift move the knife plunged into the freak’s back.

  
It’s cries gurgled as Deacon lifted it up by the blade, letting it land on the floor with a hard thud. 

  
His nose scrunched while he sliced it’s ear off, storing it in his chest pocket, knowing he wouldn’t have to wear the body part like a damn boutonnière for long. If the farming gear wasn’t here he sure as hell should be able to find something at one of the farms that scattered the countryside.

He turned back to the alleyway, off to the next spot he supposed. The chain-linked fence swayed slightly as the man balanced his foot against the fence. In the distance, a sound echoed an all too familiar and distinctive howl. 

  
A horde.

  
Mounds of disfigured bodies staggered down the hilltop, although wandering it was clear they had an end goal.

 _Dinner_.

Deacon swallowed dryly as he pushed himself away from the fence. It was too risky to make the mad dash to his bike, let alone have the engine give him away.  
There were times to run and times to find a place to wait out the storm.  
—-  
The drifter winced as the palm of his hand rested upon the shattered glass ladened window’s pane. _Three hours, three fucking hours_ since the horde clambered into the town, leaving the man to make a hasty retreat to the highest room of the nearest building. Now he sat beneath the window, breath held at any creak or groan, the safety of his pistol preemptively taken off.

He grimaced as he watched a small collective of freaks knawing at the now torn the limbs of the freak the drifter had previously killed. Two years of seeing these freaks, cutting down countless of them, he should be used to them. And yet, the animalistic tendencies of those who once were like him, like the other survivors of this forsaken virus never settled in him; it should but it wouldn’t. He couldn’t dismiss their actions, he knew it was just how they were but, there were just somethings he couldn’t shake. 

  
“YAHAGGRRH”

  
The shrilled shriek sent Deacon scrambling to duck back down, fighting the urge to fire into the direction of the wails. One false move and he’d be signing his death certificate.

  
He waited for what felt like hours but, in reality, was somewhere closer to a couple of minutes before peeking over the sill.  
Shifting his position Deacon halted in his movements by a dampened sensation sent chills down his spine.

  
_Did he just-_

  
His gaze hesitantly moved down; giving him the answer he had been fearing.  
A golfball-sized wet patch glared up at him. Amidst the stilled panic, he hadn’t realized how achingly full his bladder had become; not until the freaker’s screeching quite literally scared some out of him.

  
'Fuck,’ he cursed under his breath, now painfully aware of his situation.  
Alone, surrounded in a horde infested town and desperate to take a leak. 

  
“Deek?” The radio beside him crackled.

  
He swiped the radio and held it close as if this couldn’t get any better.

  
“Hey, Riki, what’s uh- what’s up?” His voice kept low but, above a whisper as to not raise suspicions.

  
“You were supposed to be back an hour ago, everything okay?”

  
Deacon rubbed the back of his neck, “Yeah, yeah all good, just, you know- ran into a bit of roadblock. I’m just going to set up camp, I’ll try to be back tomorrow morning.”

  
“You sure? Could send some of the guys where you are to hel-”

  
“No,” he interrupted, “I mean, it’s already late and you know how all the undesirable really get it on then.”

  
Silence filled the thickened air.

  
“Well, alright. Just, be safe and don’t do anything stupid, Deacon,” she said.

  
“St.John out,” he responded before placing the radio to the side, unfortunately bringing his full attention back to the matters at hand.

  
He could just piss somewhere, a more and more tempting notion. However, what freaks lost in perception they made up in an impeccable sense of smell and endurance. The time lost between the shrieks and radioing, the drifter hadn’t the best concept of where exactly the shit-smeared gaggle was. And, taking a leak was not how he wanted to find out their location.  
Deacon leaned his head against the wall, a low sigh when he came to terms with what needed to be done.

  
It was going to be a long night.

  
–-- 

  
His head nodded to off to the side every couple minutes, only to be re-awaken from his heart luging itself into his throat when the freak’s rustled around. Deacon stifled a groan shifted to a quiet whine when he moved, causing the button of his jeans to dig into his bloated lower abdomen.

  
He couldn’t remember the last time he had to piss this bad. During the previous times, when he had been trapped by hordes he either didn’t have to go or the fear instiled in him overtook the slight urge.

  
Slowly, Deacon lifted his head over the peak, scanning the area. The mass majority of the horde had wandered further away, becoming limping shadows under the flickering street lights. His racing heart settled slightly at the sight. The thought of fleeing to his bike crossed his mind; the stragglers would be easier to take care of, or even better, to sneak past.

  
Between the exhaustion and desperation, he slowly stood. The drifter bit back a gasp as gravity struck his bladder near-instantly, he doubled over, one hand gripping himself as to steady the aching bladder before continuing. Deacon shuffled across the floor, careful to step over the misaligned planks of wood as he walked down the stairs; machete in hand, opting for an infinitely more silent weapon for this.

Gradually he crept towards the backdoor, eyes constantly darting around the area once he made it out of the safety of four walls, now in the open. The silence was a welcomed gift for the drifter. A gift soon ripped away once he turned the corner where a freak laid.

'Of course, right in front of the damn fence,’ he thought to himself, shifting from foot to foot, trying to decide if it was worth it to check if the thing was dead, save himself the longer walk and more of a chance of meeting up with the horde.  
He took a deep breath and stepped forward.

“Please be dead, save me the damn trouble,” he grumbled.  
Grimacing as he knelt, the fullness of his bladder knawed painfully as he leaned forward. Its’ body seemed unmoving, no movement of its’ chest.

“Thank God,” he praised aloud as he slowly stepped over the freak.

  
Wild eyes snapped open and a ghastly screech echoed in the narrow alleyway.

  
Deacon yelped, feeling the clawed hand grip at his pant leg, pulling him to the ground, coming mear inches away from the gnashing teeth of the freak. His body pulled into autopilot, machete pulled and pressed against its’ throat, forcing the blade with all his might to push the freak off him; with the freak thrashing on its’ back, Deacon ran the blade over its’ throat. 

The freaker cried, hands wildly moving about, by shit luck, batting the machete away, for a brief moment the two watched the weapon disperse feet away, Deacon was brought back when the freak growled, arching its’ back in an attempt to flee from the position.

  
“Oh no you don’t you fucking piece of shit,” Deacon snarled as he swiftly pulled the shotgun from behind him, for a split second his finger naturally curling around the trigger, no- the hell he would bring down on him.

  
He flipped the gun around and bashed the butt end into the freak’s face, blood and god knows what kind of viscera splattering as the freak finally went rigid, leaving Deacon panting, pushing himself off the now dead freak.

  
His eyes closed tightly for a second, attempting to calm the adrenaline coursing through his veins. With his heart rapidly beating, blood pounding between his ears the drifter barely took into account what was happening as his body relaxed. 

Wet warmth promptly seeped out, starting as a weak trickle and soon growing to be a hissing, unstoppable stream of urine thoughtfully saturating his jeans and the ground beneath him. Deacon tilted his head back as the building pressure was alleviated. However, the post euphoria atmosphere was cut short as the man brought himself to a standing position. Piss dripped down the cuffs of his jeans and into the puddle that glistened in the moonlight. Deacon took a steadying breath.

  
“Fuck,” He mumbled as he retrieved his gun and machete before clambering over the fence, landing on the other side and jogging down the pathway, not daring to look back.

  
Once he got back to his bike, he pressed his burning cheeks against the cold metal of the handlebars, shuddering as he sat down, his jeans now cold and pressed against his skin. But, in times like this, he could handle the discomfort.

He speed away from the town and down the barren roads. Slowly veering into the driveway of a nearby farm. Not daring to go by to Lost Lake until morning.

  
Hopefully, by then, he’d be dry and have a decent excuse to why he and his bike reeked of piss.


End file.
